


A Poker Face is No Good if You Play an Open Hand

by saveupyourhopes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rating: NC17, Sibling Incest, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean sways on his feet, dramatically torn between wanting to lean into Sam and wanting to rear back and punch him square in the jaw. His eyes flutter. His cheeks flush. He nods hazily at what Sam is saying—as if Sam needed encouragement to keep speaking, to keep pressing Dean closer and closer to the far wall in the lamp-lit hotel room."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Poker Face is No Good if You Play an Open Hand

The confessions came strong and steady after Sam's second highball of dry gin. He never drinks—Dean certainly didn't fail to point it out—and maybe this is why. But, maybe he'd needed it to get this out. This... _thing_ —it's been weighing on him since Dean's sixteenth birthday, since that celebratory breakfast, since Dean came strutting down the stairs with a towel slung low on his wet hips, his hair damp, water matting the dense arc of his eyelashes, and Sam beat a hasty retreat under pretense of sudden nausea to fuck himself high and breathless, a finger in his ass and a fist around his cock and sixteen years is a long, long time to bear the weight of a secret this big. Too long.

“Shit, Sammy. Twelve?”

“Yeah, Dean. I can't—I mean, I don't know. Just—your sixteenth birthday. That's when I remember it happening. Dad made us chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast and you came downstairs in a towel. You were—you were still wet. Your—your shoulders were—”

“I don't need the details, Sam.”

They sit across from one another, perched on the inward edges of double beds, and Sam desperately wants to meet Dean's eyes, but Dean won't let him. Keeps turning his head away, down a fraction, rubbing his chin, scruffing at his hair with his hand.

“I know, Dean, I just—I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Sam, and I wanna drop it. We're brothers, okay? And that's all we are. That's all we're ever gonna be. And—just... God, Sammy, why isn't that enough?”

Sam drops his head; watches Dean from beneath his eyelashes. He's pushing off of his knees to stand up, his broad shoulders bunched and rigid with tension. He paces. Much as Sam had craved eye contact with his big brother, now that he's had it, even in that split-second of it Dean's eyes had been so sharp, so _green_ that he had to look away. He wants to imagine that there was something deeper, there, but he believes that there is nothing.

“Okay, Dean.”

::::::

Two weeks later, the boys find themselves in Baton Rouge culling a clutch of harpies from the heart of Spanish Town. There'd been so little challenge in slaying the last culprit that Sam had almost felt guilty, but, Dean had explained, “If we don't get rid of 'em now, Sam, they'll spread and then there'll really be a problem. ...and what else are we supposed to do with our time, anyways? All's quiet on on the western front, it seems.”

Their room is darkly colored and not the cleanest Sam's ever seen, but the night following their harpy kill is the best sleep he's had in weeks. 

The night after that, Sam isn't even drunk—and neither is Dean—when the topic of conversation shifts from the inadequacies of modern horror flicks to Sam's sixteen-year-long crush on his big brother. The phasing-in is subtle, but Dean knows it's happening before it even leaves Sam's mouth. 

It's hot out even though it's barely a week into March, and the streets outside of their third-story room are loud with colors and sounds and crawling with Mardi Gras revelers that Dean occasionally peeks out at through vertical window blinds, making sure that all is as it should be. He ignores Sam, for the most part, but Sam is nothing if not quietly persistent. He's always been that way.

“I just felt like you should know, Dean. You're the only person in this world I can talk to and it's been killin' me ever since I was a kid. Who else am I gonna tell?”

Dean narrows his eyes at a woman moving with preternatural grace through a clutch of drunken, shouting merry-makers. From the window, Dean's eyes are keen enough to catch the glint of a bottu in the center of her forehead. Apart from the way she sways and turns, arms waving like serpents, there's nothing strange about her. “Okay, Sam. You got through to me—I listened. Now let's drop it.”

“Dean—”

“Sam, I said _drop it_.”

“God damn it, Dean. You're hearing me but you're not _listening_.” Sam stands from his place on the corner of his designated bed and clears the distance between himself and his brother. The way he knocks Dean's shoulder, forcing him to turn around, makes Dean bristle, balling his fists up by his sides and clenching his jaw. His brow knits—this look of consternation, this one of hard resolve is what Sam admires about his brother. Dean's not helping himself by fixing Sam with that look, and he's certainly not helping himself by letting it crack so easily—letting Sam see that little softening of his brow that means he might be more open to hearing what's being said than he lets on. He's just scared, Sam reasons, of all the implications. There are plenty, given the heft of Sam's confessions. This isn't just pillow talk.

“Haven't you ever thought about—”

“No, Sam. What'd I tell you before? Back in Mississippi when you started this mess?” He looks desperate, his brow peaked up in a deep furrow, “God, Sam,” and he throws his hand at his little brother, standing over him inches and inches, like he's just finished—like that's the end of it. “Wish you'd never brought it up. Fuck.”

“How come, Dean?”

“Stop it, Sam.”

“No. Why? Why do you wish that?” Sam grips Dean's shoulders, crowding into his space, and Dean shuffles like he's swooning. “Is it because—?”

“Sam,” Dean warns. Any other day, any other time, Sam would've shut his mouth then and there because that tone means that one step further and Dean's gonna beat true and pure Winchester wrath into his little brother's hide. Sam knows because it happened once and that was the first and last time he ever tested Dean.

Sam swallows; presses on, “Is it because you're scared you'll feel the same way? You're scared 'cause you _do_ feel like that?”

“God, Sam.” Dean curses Sam through grit teeth, shoving at his hands, his arms, his shoulders. He tries to circumnavigate the big, wide outline of Sam's body and fails when Sam steps into his path and doesn't move when Dean shoves into his chest when both fists, shouting at him, “God damn it, Sam, _**move**_.”

But Sam holds on tight to Dean's biceps, forces him to listen. “You are. You're scared you'll feel the same way for me that I feel for you and you're scared to talk about it because you don't wanna acknowledge it. But it's okay, Dean, 'cause I already know and you don't have to talk about it. You don't have to say anything, Dean. I know.”

Dean falls silent. When he looks at Sam, he looks helpless—he looks confused and powerless, unable to struggle against the sturdy reaches of Sam's arms, the unwavering cage of his fingers. He opens his mouth, works his jaw in an attempt to speak, to protest, and nothing comes of his efforts.

Sam licks his lips, just barely able to maintain a steady rhythm of bursting, excited breaths. “You remember that night in Texas, Dean? Dad let us camp with him while he hunted that rusalka on the Rio Grande. It was so hot, Dean, you remember that? So hot we couldn't even sleep.”

Dean sways on his feet, dramatically torn between wanting to lean into Sam and wanting to rear back and punch him square in the jaw. His eyes flutter. His cheeks flush. He nods hazily at what Sam is saying—as if Sam needed encouragement to keep speaking, to keep pressing Dean closer and closer to the far wall in the lamp-lit hotel room.

“Dad was gone so long we thought he was dead. You remember that night, don't you, Dean?”

Dean nods.

“You finally fell asleep just before sunrise, and I swear to God, Dean, I thought I was gonna die tryin' to keep my hands off of you. You looked so fuckin' good all sprawled out and not a scrap of clothing on you. I wanted to jump in the river just to see if I could cool down, and I would've, Dean, but—you remember? Dad told us no matter what, don't get in the water.” Not even to cool off after the sight of your big brother sleeping stretched-out and nude and glossy with sweat had got you all wound up, apparently.

Sam pins Dean to the wall by his arms and the only struggle he receives is the brief but strong tug and squirm of Dean's stout hips, the kicking out of his legs, the shuffling of his boots on the floorboards. It's a mistake for Dean to drop his head back on a despairing groan, laying out the length of his throat before Sam's hungry eyes. He's no better off than a lamb gamboling too near the wolf's den when Sam, try as he might to resist it, presses his body close to Dean's and lays a quivering, gasping mouth against the smooth curve of his throat. His tongue makes a pass across the line of stubble that ends in the crease of his neck, and he groans like he can't stop, a depraved sound that passes slithering and unsteady between his mouth and Dean's flesh. He's helpless to prevent his limbs' encircling of Dean's own, pinning his arms to his sides within their embrace—his body's on autopilot, self-navigating by a flinty spark of lust.

Dean kicks harder and rocks his shoulders, now, twisting and turning in Sam's grasp but Sam doesn't relent. “Sam,” Dean warns a second time, but the blind determination with which Sam drives his shoulders into Dean's body, muscling him into submission, is frightening. Dean tries to bring his little brother back down again with the whimpering utterance of his name, but Sam huffs against Dean's neck and presses closer, settling his weight against the sturdy frame separating him from the wall. Sam hugs him tight, and with the full force of his strength behind it, any resistance that Dean could possibly meet him with would be futile.

Sam presses forward, laying his weight into his hips to grind firmly against Dean. He can't tell if Dean's hard or not, but he doesn't care, so long as he can rub up against his thigh, send a shard of severe excitement shooting up into his belly on every other grinding roll. He marks a wet path up the side of Dean's neck with his mouth, stopping at his ear, smearing his mouth against flushed curves of cartilage. The tip of Sam's tongue snakes forth from between his lips to trace the delicate lines of Dean's ear.

“I've wanted this for so fuckin' long, Dean,” he says, low and throaty against Dean's ear. “So fuckin' bad. Just—just let me, okay? I deserve it, don't I? Don't you think your little brother deserves somethin' he wants for once, Dean?” Without warning, Sam dips his tongue-tip into the cavern of Dean's ear and he cries out, arching back. Writhing within Sam's embrace, his nerves are on fire, and he can't tell if he's alight with repugnance or excitement and that's what frightens him the most.

“Sam, please,” Dean tries again. “I don't... This is fucked up, Sam. God.”

“Why's it fucked up? I love you, Dean. You love me, too, even if you don't say it.” The throngs of revelers down below clamor with confused excitement. A few rounds are fired from a cap gun; someone hollers something in Creole; women squeal and cackle and men howl out lechery and the cry of small aerial fireworks sounds throughout the room. In a beat of a butterfly's wing, the outside world quiets down again to an incessant murmur of commotion, muffled by the walls of their building.

“And look, Dean,” Sam continues, kneeing up between Dean's legs, pressing a thigh into the warm shape of his cock. “That head o' yours might have hang-ups about your little brother pawin' all over you like this, but your dick sure doesn't.”

At this, Dean wrestles with renewed vigor against Sam's lewd interpretation of a bear-hug in an attempt to divest himself of his brother's grasp. “Sam, I swear to God—” he tries, but taking the Lord's name in vain isn't something that Sam's ever responded to and these days, it's a name that matters less and less as the weeks tick by. Somewhere in the deepest, darkest recesses of his thoughts, Dean wonders how long it's been since he's provoked a real response from his brother—if most, or all, of it, these days, is Sam just humoring Dean. Sam shoves into Dean's chest with a sturdy shoulder and it knocks the breath from his lungs in one sharp jolt.

“If you were gonna stop me, Dean, you would've done it already.” Sam's voice is a sandpapery rasp against Dean's ear, spoken through teeth clenched so tight that the muscle of Sam's jaw stood out beneath the pressure. “You'd never let me get this far if you didn't want it and all this fight in you is _so_ much less convincing when your cock's fuckin' digging into my leg.” He frees a hand from his death-grip around Dean's shoulders, at the risk of his brother squirming free, to grope blindly at the bulge behind Dean's zipper. Sam quivers, like all of this dark desire has built up behind a floodgate and it's full to bursting, now, like his skin is barely thick enough, strong enough, to contain it.

Dean gets an arm loose and swings it around Sam's neck, grappling at him. He pulls and pulls, like he wants to pry Sam off of him, but his little brother doesn't budge, not even a fraction—like the proximity of them, now, has drained Dean of his strength. Sam only grins, pressing closer, flatter, trapping Dean with a knee between his thighs; with both hands pressed to the wall at either side of Dean's head, penning him in between his forearms so that any way Dean squirms, any way he turns and writhes, he sees or feels a part of Sammy and can't move any farther.

“You remember that year we spent in Portland when I was sixteen, Dean?” Dean nods. He lets his head thump back against the wall, and Sam's mouth goes to his exposed throat, moves against it as he speaks. “You remember that girl I was with—Allison? Allison Rivers, Lincoln High School senior, class of '99. Mm-mm.” Sam says it all like the lilt of it, the inflection of it, holds something savory and warm and filling in its intonation, in the way it rolls right off his tongue like a lifetime of familiarity. 

“You remember that night I brought her home? I had _Allison Rivers_ in my room, Dean. I was sixteen years old. Only ever kissed that one girl in junior high.”

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean groans, exasperated, squirming away from wet, open-mouthed kisses at the curve of his throat. “What's the fuckin' point?”

“You think I don't know?” Sam's voice is low; dark against the strong angle of Dean's jaw, nose nestled up against the warmth of his earlobe and he grins at the way Dean freezes, the flex of his throat as he swallows and tries to croak out: “wh-what?”

“You. At the door. I could see the shadow of your feet.”

“ _Dad_ was—”

“Dad was _hunting_ , Dean. D'you think I would've been stupid enough to bring her over while Dad was home? I know it was you.” He pushes his knee up into Dean's crotch and presses close when Dean rolls his hips down, balling his right hand into a fist in the flannel of Sam's shirt. “You wanna know why I got off so quick?”

“Sam—”

“Just the _thought_ —”

“ ** _Sam_** ,” Dean barks in protest—he sounds scared, for a moment—and Sam claps a hand across Dean's mouth; bears all his weight down on his big brother, hugging him into a one-armed embrace while his lips move against a hot, rosy earlobe.

“Just the _thought_ of you on the other side of that door,” he continues hastily, “Dean, I got so fuckin' hot I couldn't _see_ straight. Fuck.” Sam adjusts them, careful to keep his hand curled tight over Dean's mouth, and only settles when he's sure that Dean can feel him, feel the turgid, heavy heat of him pulsing against the stiff line of his zipper. He grinds into Dean this way; grinds Dean into him, and Dean's cries are muffled against Sam's hands, smelling faintly of motel soap, more headily of leather.

“Know what she was doin' to me, Dean? While you were listenin'?” Sam extends his tongue, traces a wet path behind Dean's earlobe, curling it up and laving over it until his lips are over Dean's ear and his voice is just a sound, just a murmur, deep as Sam's voice, husky as Sam's voice, but too dark, too lusty. “She had her mouth around my cock.”

Sam drives his shoulder into Dean's chest, pinning him long enough to free a hand and struggle with Dean's zipper. Dean fights. His boots scuff into the floorboards—he's bucking and kicking, trying to knee Sam, trying to hook his legs in and trip Sam up—and his shoulders rock and shrug under the weight of his little brother's impressive grasp.

Sam feels the shout die in Dean's throat; feels the breath of protest freeze there, hitching up, when he gets his fist around his cock. Sam pumps him hungrily, crowding in close so that his mouth grazes the scarred skin of his knuckles over his brother's mouth as he speaks to Dean in filths. “And I started thinkin', Dean, about how many times you'd done it; how many girls've gone down on you, y'know? How good it must've felt for you your first time. What you taste like. What you'd look like if I was down on my knees for you, like Allison was for me. Fuck, Dean.”

Dean's slippery wet in Sam's fist, beginning to work his hips and he's not sure if it's a fight he's putting up, now, or if he's squirming because he wants more—because he wants to fuck Sam's fist, because he's close and getting closer. Sam works him harder; squeezes him tighter. “I would've given anything to tell you right then and there, Dean. God. I would've given anything to've told Allison to get the fuck out of my room so you could be there, instead.” Dean's neck twists sharply in an attempt to wrench his head away, free his mouth for... for what, he can't be sure. Sam pushes his hips close, working his fist around the hot, swollen head of Dean's cock. Gooseflesh covers Dean head to foot when the warm jet of Sam's breath, his words, finds the cavern of his ear, “I would've done _anything_ for you, Dean. Anything you wanted.” His voice drops lower, a growling octave that registers low in Dean's gut—like he can feel it. “I still would.”

Dean rears back, dislodging Sam's palm and sucking in air like he's been underwater for hours. Between gasping breaths, his hips writhing, he manages to grit out: “Make me come, Sam. Make me fuckin' come.”

Sam shakes his head, a solid _no_ ; then he tips it to the side to clear his brow of sweat-sticky bangs and kneels, his arm circling steady around Dean's waist. “Shhh. Just calm down.” It's the tone he takes when Dean's smashed and belligerent; the tone he takes when Dean's had just enough to drink, just enough to make him think too, too much, adding and subtracting and dividing up all the people in the world who need to be protected, rescued; the tone he takes when Dean gets frantic thinking of how he'll never be able to help all those people if he can't even help himself, sometimes. It's like the sound of Sam's voice hotwires Dean's brain, touches together circuits long disconnected, and Dean stares down at him, a solemn calm at war with desperation.

Sam tilts his head and tucks his lips against the ridge of Dean's cockhead, a warm dapple of wetness: a kiss. Dean flinches, hissing like he's hurt, blurting out, “Please.”

Sam's eyebrows fly up, like he's surprised. He's more than happy to oblige Dean's sudden desire and he nestles another kiss beneath the head of his big brother's cock, pursing his lips up against the frenum ridge. He levels his gaze with Dean's, grips his cock around its base and Sam smears his wet lips against the slimy tang of precome at Dean's slit. When his lips open up around Dean's cockhead, take him down to the back of his throat quick and without warning, Dean's eyes go wide, desperate and pleading, eyebrows pressing in toward a crease in the center and he groans, low and lewd. “Fuck, Sammy.”

Sam swallows again, wiggles and wiggles until Dean's cock is down his throat far enough to choke him. The suction between his cheeks is incredible as he hollows them out and pulls off, and Dean arches away from the wall, stumbling after his little brother as he stands, as he grips Dean by his shirtfront and begins hauling him toward the bed, saying, _begging_ , “Fuck me, Dean. God, please.” And Dean is tripping blindly after him on weak knees, his cock aching, jutting up into open air, smudging a translucent trail against the dark navy of Dean's t-shirt. When Sam releases him, frees his hands from the possessive fists they'd made in Dean's shirt, they go to his fly, yanking the button through its slot and tearing at his zipper. He lifts his hips as he scrambles back on the bed, digging his heels into the mattress, and as he begins to push, frantic, at the waist of his jeans, lifting his hips up to shove them down, Dean stops him—Dean practically falls on him in an attempt to still his hands, his own fingers around Sam's wrists.

“Dean—”

“Sam, _stop it_ —what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you—? Is this some kind of—”

“ _Dean_.” Sam grips his brother by the nape of his neck and heaves him in with such force that Dean's feet skid out from beneath him. They're nose-to-nose when Sam growls out, “Dean, you have to do this for me. You have to.” Sam's free hand goes to the waistband of Dean's pants, gripping, pulling with all his might until Dean has no choice—or maybe he does, but he doesn't acknowledge any other option than this: nestling close between Sam's thighs, puzzled right in against his hips, his cock raw and sensitive against the soft denim of Sam's old jeans.

When Sam has his big brother where he wants him, he grips Dean's hair in fists where it's long enough, holding him in place, staring into him with an intensity that only Sam can manage. “I've needed this for so long,” Sam murmurs, leaning up to steal a kiss from his brother, who seems confused, overwhelmed, and desperately horny, all in one go. “Years, Dean. And fucking myself to the thought of you got so old, so goddamn fast. It stopped being good enough.”

“You,” Dean murmurs, hazy and heavy-tongued. He sounds like he's just come out of a deep, deep sleep. His elbows threaten to buckle beneath his weight, but his brother's got him; Sam lets Dean settle his body down against his own. “You fucked yourself? Thinkin' about me?”

“Yeah.” Sam's tongue darts out, tracing a path of wetness across a sharp little smirk. “All the time. I always tried to put one more finger in 'cause I knew you'd be so big for me, 'specially when I was thirteen.” Sam's words seem to lull Dean into a state of eagerness—eager hands and eager lips, and Sam is grinning against Dean's mouth, smug and satisfied as Dean's fingers go to the waist of his little brother's jeans and begin tugging, yanking them down. Sam gladly lifts his hips, lets Dean whip his denims down off his legs and hustle up between them, pushing Sam's knees back and fitting his cock right against the outline of Sam's beneath his boxers.

“How many'd you get in?” Dean grunts, lining up with Sam and pushing, stroking, until the barrier of fabric is too much—he urges Sam to help him get his pants down, and Sam obliges, saying, “Four, a couple times. I was seventeen.” Dean groans, hooking his thumb into the elastic of his boxers and yanking them down, and Sam follows suit until they're flush together, and two sets of fingers curl around them, squeezing up along hard, slippery flesh, fattened with the rush of blood. “I fucked myself so good for you. I could've taken you so easy then.” Sam's nostrils flare and he lets out a whuff of air, eyelids fluttering until his eyes shut and his head drops back on his shoulders, his heavy torso supported on one elbow.

“What about now?” Dean rumbles, and Sam doesn't let a moment's hesitation stall him, “I still could.”

Because it's enough to undo Dean, because the way the tip of Sam's tongue flashes out kitten-quick and laves his bottom lip in glistening wetness, Sam pulls their hands away—fights Dean's, until he's willing to drop them at Sam's urging, “Don't come yet, Dean. Please.”

“Then get on your belly for me,” Dean instructs with a sharpness that Sam isn't sure he's ever heard before. He responds even quicker for it, twisting around on the bed and crawling to the center of it, resting on his belly, letting his boxers be skimmed the rest of the way off of his legs and letting his legs, in turn, be guided up until his left knee is angled up and his right leg is relaxed, his foot hanging off the edge of the bed. Dean pushes Sam's shirt up his back with one hand and wrestles his own off of his body with the other, watching the way the muscles in Sam's shoulders knot and clench and pull in motion. Sam's thick arms position themselves in such a way that he can grip the hem of his t-shirt and tear it up off of himself, his hair a disheveled mess as his head pops through the neck of the shirt.

With Sam exposed like this, Dean balks. He scolds himself for not considering what he would feel, what it would be like when they were both in the thick of it, but Sam whimpers so sweetly, pushing his hips up, and when the pink of Sam's hole suddenly becomes visible as he parts his thighs wider, Dean is on him. He hooks his arms beneath Sam's thighs, hands splaying wide and traveling up to grip the meat of his hips, relishing that, the way the flesh gives, the obvious strength of muscle beneath Sam's skin. His hands backtrack and grip Sam's ass, spreading him wide, Dean's biceps nudging his little brother's inner thighs until they part farther, still.

Dean can hear the way Sam's breath hitches, and when he glances up, he sees Sam's cheek buried into a bunched-up nest of blanket, his hands balled into fists. It's here, now, that Dean lets this slow, devilish grin creep across his mouth; he kisses Sam in the curve of skin where his thigh meets his left cheek and nips him there, too, until the golden-cream flesh is red. “This what you wanted, Sammy?”

His voice is a rumble, an unsteady burst of raw-throated growl. His ears are tuned to Sam's every breath, and he hears his little brother's curse, a breathy _fuck_ spoken to the empty air on the opposite side of the bed, the two feet of space between the motel bed and the wide, curtained window. He peers up the long, long stretch of Sam's body and watches as he lifts his ass and tilts it back, pushing his hips toward where he feels the heat of Dean's breath. Dean sucks two fingertips into his mouth and strokes at the clenching pink muscle of Sammy's hole and he bucks, whining.

“Dean.” Sam's voice is a breath, desperate, needing.

Dean flattens his tongue against Sam's hole, laps sloppily once, twice, three times, and Sam rolls back against his face with a startled cry. Dean clicks his tongue like he's scolding his little brother, and he murmurs, patient, curious, “Let's see how hard you worked to let me in there,” and gives Sam's muscles a push, surprised and severely thrilled to find that they slip in easily to his second knuckle. Sam clamps down and cries out, pushing back, and when Dean eases up, tries to pull his fingers back, Sam reaches to grip his wrist and encourage him to fuck in deeper. His voice is a warning tone, “ _Dean_. Dean, fuck me—don't fuckin' tease me.”

Dean obliges Sam's tugging, eager hand and thrusts his fingers in to the last knuckle, bearing down with most of his weight while he struggles to get one knee on the bed, one foot on the floor, struggles to get his pants and boxers down over his legs. His fingertips swirl hard into what he wagers is his little brother's sweet spot—by the way Sam's body arches, by the way his fists tighten, by the animal groan that escapes him, muffled by the bed. He moans, needy— _fuck me, fuck me_ —and Dean only deprives him for a moment longer, easing his fingers out of Sam's body and replacing them with the fat, hot press of his cockhead.

Sam swears and squirms beneath Dean, lifting his hips, arching his back, heated like he might die if he doesn't get something more, soon. It's been fingers, just fingers all this time, and when he feels Dean's cock pressing at the supple give of that rosy little hole, he catches his breath and holds it and when it's released, finally, he groans, lifting higher onto his knees, rocking back into the hot, rigid push of Dean's cock. He lets his body unwind, muscles forced to ease out and relax, when Dean takes hold of his hips in a firm, tight grip. “Yeah,” Sam pants, depraved, “Fuck me, Dean. Give it to me. Gimme—”

“Shit, Sam.” Dean's breath comes in hasty huffs and he nudges at Sam's thighs, urging them to tighten together, and they do. Dean sits astride Sam's ass and spits in his hand until his palm is sloppy, slicking his cock with the better part of it, using the rest of that mess to make Sam wet again—an excuse to stroke and tease, to watch the eager muscles of him clutch and relax. By the time Dean lines up with the big, broad body beneath him, Sam is chanting his big brother's name like a mantra, so desperate to feel, be filled, it's like he can't think but to plead for Dean, his face so flushed it's like he's been struck with a sudden fever, not one that he can just sweat out.

Dean braces himself, balances his weight on his right palm, splayed across Sam's lower back. He nudges between the meat of Sam's cheeks, cock gripped at its base and he pushes, and Sam gives easier than Dean had ever dreamed he would. Sam's body jolts at the sensation, a sharp bolt of strange satisfaction—Dean feels so different, ridged and shaped like nothing Sam's fingers could ever emulate. Sam doesn't fail to let him know it, reaching back to spread himself open wide, arching his back in to present himself for Dean, give him something sturdy to fuck into.

“C'mon, Dean,” Sam huffs, attempting to urge Dean past the initial concern, past the painstaking effort he was putting toward not hurting his brother. “Want you so fuckin' bad, Dean. Gimme all of it. Please.” Dean's trembling with the effort it takes to hold back, not sure if he's withholding to hear Sam beg so pretty or because he's really afraid of hurting him. Sam's panting, desperate to have Dean, tender little hole working around the inch or so inside of him and then Sam curls his body to the side as much as he can, looking back—reaching back, clawing at Dean's hip, his thigh, pulling at him, and he sobs, “Dean, please.”

Dean lays all of his weight behind one thrust, driving into Sam at his inconsolably frantic, breathless urging. Dean can hear the sharp intake of breath, even over his own unsteady exhale, and for a time, they're both quivering and silent, both grappling madly for the reins of their release—it lay just beyond an precipice that they have both long fallen over and there's a brief struggle to ground them. It's Sam who breaks first with a breathy, quavering oath and he rests his head forward, cradling it in his forearm. He bears back against Dean, earns a tight squeeze on his hips. “Move, Dean,” Sam bites out, lifting himself onto his elbows and dropping his head, exposing the nape of his neck to Dean, who arches forward and latches onto it with a wet, hot mouth. Dean braces himself against Sam's hips and withdraws to the tip, and driving back into him earns a guttural cry and Dean thinks he's never been so eager, so determined to perform to the best of his abilities until now, with his brother quivering and sighing and writhing beneath him, impaled on his cock.

Dean's arms encircle Sam, his forearms sliding beneath his little brother's chest and he presses in tight, spreading his thighs out over Sam and hooking his feet around the pits of Sam's knees. He rocks his hips again and Sam keens, thrusting back, sick of slow and easy and too prepared to set his own pace—until Dean does it for him. He braces Sam's thighs to the bed and his stroke is suddenly firm and deep, and he murmurs, “Open up good and wide for me, Sammy,” and Sam obeys like he's been trained to do it—to reach back and spread himself wide, the weight of his torso cradled on Dean's thick forearms. 

Dean fucks him easy like this, as deep in as he can go and as far out as he can withdraw without pulling out completely, pounding steadily into Sam, as slowly as he dares. He can see Sam's face, his head turned to the side and his flushed cheek buried in the bedclothes—his eyes are all screwed up, clenched shut, his eyebrows pinched up in the center, that soft, supple mouth unhinged on lewd little mewls. Dean cranes his neck to catch Sam's mouth, lapping into him, and Sam kisses back with a hungry impatience that starkly contrasts Dean's nice-and-easy, lazy kisses.

Sam bucks back, uses Dean to fuck himself when Dean doesn't hammer into him quickly enough, hard enough, and he whines into his brother's mouth like he's being deprived—like he's _been_ deprived for too long, now.

“Dean. God,” he whimpers.

“Tell me all about it, Sammy, c'mon.”

“Want you to fuck me so hard, Dean.” Sam sounds like he's on the verge of tears, his eyes wet and dark. “I've wanted this for so fuckin' long and all you wanna do is tease me. So fuckin' stubborn. Fuckin' hate you.”

Chuckling, a low, throaty sound, Dean nuzzles into the soft half-curls at Sam's temple and embraces him tighter. “Just take it easy, Sammy. I'm gonna get you there.”

“But—”

“Sammy,” Dean warns. It's so much lower, so much more raw than Sam's ever heard it, darker than he's ever heard his name from Dean's tongue, and he sinks into the bed, submitting. Dean murmurs, “Good boy. My good boy,” and relishes the sound of a whimper from Sam's mouth, the sensation of his pulse kicking up inside of him.

Dean strengthens his grasp around Sam's chest, one hand clutching his shoulder and the other establishing a firm grasp on his little brother's throat. It's a moment more before Dean begins to fuck him in earnest—he raises his hips and thrusts in sharply, and after that, he doesn't relent, pistoning into Sam's body quick and steady and deep. Dean tilts Sam's head back and presses his lips against the hinge of his jaw, and Sam moans up to the ceiling, one hand releasing himself to grasp at Dean's hip, encouraging him.

“That good, Sammy?”

“God, yeah.” Sam's breath hitches on a sob and he nestles back against Dean, greedy for affection, stroking the coarse stubble of his cheek across the similar sandpapery surface of Dean's.

Dean withdraws quickly, uncovers Sam's body and begins grabbing his arms, his legs, jostling him until he's on his back with his big brother nestling up between his thighs. Dean hooks his elbows under Sam's knees and pushes them back, folds him practically in half to drive into him without warning, swift, to the root, until their bodies are ground together there, hard, Dean's determination, now, simply possessive. He arches over Sam and seals his mouth against a long, tanned length of exposed throat, and Sam arches back, pleading, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Dean. Harder,” and Dean, growling, can't help but oblige.

Sam grabs for Dean's ass, sliding his hands down the smooth curves of his back until they rest at the small of it, the gentle curve, fingers nestled into the divots of Venus' dimples at either side of his spine. He lifts his head and finds Dean's mouth, and they kiss wet and slow, a stark contrast to the way Dean's hips are working his little brother over—they don't rest a moment between thrusts, never giving Sam a chance to recover from the sharp, aching pleasure of being stuffed full and then emptied, full and empty, full and empty. Dean fucks him until he's quivering, shaking apart, clawing into the small of Dean's back, his eyebrows worked together in a look of severe, hurting pleasure.

“Dean,” comes the abortive cry between kisses, and Sam's legs are tensing, quavering. “Can I—?” he whimpers, and he's opening his eyes, full to the brim with moisture and rosy-rimmed like he's high on this, high on the sensation of his brother taking him, owning him—finally. “Can I come, Dean? Please—please.”

“C'mon, Sammy,” Dean encourages, letting Sam's right leg fall in favor of balancing himself on the forearm that had been holding it up, letting his left leg fall so that Dean can take hold of his cock. He leans forward, up on his knees, and fucks Sam with all of his weight, every ounce of his strength and endures the keen jolt of pain at the base of his spine, the shooting ache of fingernails digging into him—Sam can't help himself.

Sam groans, “Fuck—oh, fuck, fuck,” and arches back, and Dean encourages him, low and patient but unsteady like he's barely under control, himself: “That's it, Sammy. Come on. Lemme see what you got for me.”

And Sam's done, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes and crying out, sobbing, drawn tight and tense. Dean sits up on his knees, grips Sam's ankle with one hand to hold him steady while his other foot presses into Dean's side, braced there; Dean lets him push against his body and let go, shooting hot and quick up over his chest and throat and belly, over his brother's fingers. Dean manages to hold on long enough for Sam to get off, but the sight of him, flushed all the way down to his chest and painted in his own come—the _sensation_ of him, of Sam: his body pushing back against Dean's thrusts; the way his hips writhe and swivel on Dean's cock, working out the last of his own orgasm; the way his muscles collapse around the fattened length of Dean so tightly that he has to work, grunting, to fuck through the contractions, and the sound of his voice, panting, sighing, and now, begging, “Give it to me, Dean. Come in me, fill me up,”—and Dean is letting go of his restraint, letting that last thread of it be plucked out so his composure can unravel.

Dean comes groaning and grinding into his brother with a death-grip on his ankles, watching Sammy's cock, lengthy and fat, throb weakly against his belly until his eyes roll back and his head drops, and he pumps Sam so full that the slippery wet of it is being fucked back out of him with every inward thrust. Sam chants, “Yeah, Dean. That's what I needed. God,” and it's enough to wring the last aching pulse out of him. Dean stills when he becomes too tender to move anymore, gingerly easing himself down against Sam and he's welcomed with ankles locked at the small of his back, strong legs pulling him in and holding him deep, Sam's head tilting so that Dean can nestle his face against the hot, sweat-damp surface of his neck.

For a long time, they lay against each other, Sam's legs stretching and relaxing, falling apart around his brother's hips, and Dean content to rise and fall with the rhythm of Sam's breath, Sam's broad chest expanding and deflating. Finally, Sam draws his fingers across Dean's nape, over his hairline, and lifts his head to speak against the shorn hair at the side of his head, “Dean.”

Dean manages to grunt out a sound of acknowledgment, question.

“If I—I mean, if you, y'know, we—” and this is what has Dean lifting his head, sealing his mouth against Sam's and murmuring, “Stop talking. You suck at it.”

When Sam drops his head back and laughs, it sounds relieved, like nerves being unbundled, being released. “Okay,” he sighs, “okay,” shifting with Dean, moved until they're laying alongside one another, Dean on his belly and Sam with his arm trapped beneath his brother's chest, Dean's own arm slung across the rise of Sam's ribcage.

“Dean?” Sam tries again.

Dean, half-muffled by his pillow, groans, “What'd I say, Sam?”

And it sounds harsh—Sam feels like he's shrinking under the gruff scratch of Dean's voice. But when he glances to the side, down to his brother half-sleeping, slitting one eye open to peer up at Sam, Dean is grinning, and then he's closing his eyes, nestling down into the pillows, into sheets. What matters most is that he's nestling closer, pressing tighter to Sam's side and tucking a slow, slow kiss against the curve of his little brother's neck and Sam smiles, sated and calm and unworried. In sleep, they are a tangle of arms and legs that never pull apart.


End file.
